Silent Premonition
by BatNeko
Summary: FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan  just call him York  is called in to investigate the death of a police officer in a little town called Silent Hill.  Seems like a routine case, don't you think Zach?
1. Welcome to Silent Hill

1.

"So it's this little town in the middle of nowhere," York said, pulling out a cigarette. "Everyone knows each other, no big crimes or big politics. Sounds like paradise, right Zach? But these things are never what they seem. Small towns… they have just as much darkness as any big city. This becomes clear later in the film, when our supposed 'hero' encourages his romantic rival to kill himself."

He dropped the cigarette without lighting it, and fumbled for another. "1955. Fred Zinneman. That was his first musical, you know Zach, and he'd go on to win four academy awards. Quite an inspiring figure."

Signs passed on the highway. His destination was only 26 miles away, but a little café identified itself as "The Last Chance."

"Last chance? That doesn't make sense Zach. The town's less than half an hour away." He turned onto the ramp anyway. "Still, I could use some coffee."

The café wasn't too busy; a few couples scattered around, and two men sitting at the counter. The waitress smiled at York as he walked in, and grabbed a menu from by the register.

"Hi there. Here for lunch or directions?"

"Just coffee, thanks."

"Perfect timing, I just finished a fresh pot. Go ahead and have a seat anywhere."

York sat down at a booth, his mood already perked up. This case was an odd one, which normally intrigued him, but his research so far was depressingly vague. No one knew much about the little town. It had a lot of tourists, and a few reports of drug-related crimes, but nothing to indicate what had happened.

A dead policewoman. A missing man and his daughter. If anyone else was gone, it hadn't been reported, but the whole thing was… muddy. No one had seen anything, any of the people involved. It shouldn't be possible, how could three people die or disappear with no one even remembering they'd been there?

The waitress reappeared, coffee pot in hand. Her nametag read "Bev," and she had a rainbow of markers tucked into her apron pocket.

"Thank you Bev."

"My pleasure, stranger."

"Just call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

"Well then York, let me know if I can get you anything."

"Actually, I did have a question."

"Oh?"

"The town that's not far from here, Silent Hill." As soon as he said the name, Bev's smile faltered. But she didn't move, and he continued. "I'm headed there to do some investigating on an incident that happened not long ago. You wouldn't have heard anything?"

"An incident? In Silent Hill?" York got the feeling he was missing a joke, albeit a dark one. "Sorry, York, but I don't pay much attention to the gossip out of there. If the rumors are to be believed, that town is a death trap."

"You don't say…"

"But I'm sure it's just rumors. Stories to scare tourists. Good luck on your… investigation." She turned away, ending the conversation beyond a doubt.

"She didn't sound sure, did she Zach?" York swirled creamer into his coffee, studying it thoughtfully. "Lucky color is white. Hm, I wish I'd brought my white tie."

He spent a little time at the café, enjoying his coffee and watching the people there. Bev kept glancing at him, but she might have just been judging if he wanted a refill. Leaving enough of a tip that he'd be remembered fondly, York slipped out while Bev was distracted.

"I know, Zach, she knew something. But I don't think it was about this particular case. Remember, this isn't the first odd news out of Silent Hill…"

There were rumors of a cult. Rumors of drug activity. Rumors of arson, murder, jaywalking. So many rumors from one town… Originally York had only been drawn to the case because of the death of the young policewoman, but when he started reading more about this town, he got curious.

The highway didn't connect to Silent Hill directly, so York had to pull off and take a few narrow winding roads, and it was mid-afternoon when he reached the city limits. A warm spring day, a small town… everything looked peaceful.

"Too quiet, Zach? I'm not sure…"

He followed the directions he'd been given to the local police station, not surprised to find a tiny building. Like every other small-town police station he'd been to, it smelled like coffee and newsprint, and ringing phones echoed from behind closed doors. There was a chalkboard on one wall, the words "White Claudia" barely visible beneath a half-erased smear.

The officer at the front desk barely glanced at him when he walked in, then looked again and sat up straighter, tucking something under the counter.

"Yes? Can I help you?"

York flashed his badge. "FBI Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, just call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

"Oh, of course. Agent… York. Um. Well, let me just get someone to let you into the file room."

York tapped his tie. "Have to man your post, right?"

The officer gave him a crooked smile, before muttering into his radio.

"Suspicious of outsiders. Par so far, Zach."

The officer glanced at him, forehead wrinkling. York offered a smile.

"Uh, it will just be a moment."

"Maybe you can fill me in a bit, in meantime."

The officer looked nervous. "I'm sure you know more than I do. I wasn't on the initial investigation."

"You must have heard something. It's not every day a policewomen ends up murdered on a merry-go-round."

He tilted his head, looking like a confused dog. "Well no, _that_ doesn't happen every day."

"Curiouser and curiouser," York mumbled. "Does the investigation have any leads?" he added, louder.

"Well… not exactly. At least not that I've heard."

"Not exactly?"

Another officer approached, even younger and most likely with even less authority. The desk officer stood up eagerly. "Mal, help Agent York, would you?"

"Me?" the young officer blinked. "But I-"

"Just let him into the file room and get him whatever he asks for."

"What ever?"

"Oh my god, Mal," the officer rubbed his forehead. "Yes. Whatever."

"Okay…" the young officer smiled nervously. "I'm Mal- Officer Malcolm Goodman."

"Special Agent Francis York Morgan. Please, just call me York. That's what everyone calls me."

"Oh… kay. The files are this way."

'This way' proved to be about four steps. The desk officer really hadn't needed to call for Goodman at all, it seemed. "Pecking order, Zach? Or more hostility?"

"Here," Goodman pulled open a drawer and removed a slim folder. "This is all the information on the Bennett case."

"Officer Cybil Bennett, you mean?"

"Y- yes sir."

"This is all of it?"

"Yes? I mean, I don't think there was much to go on. She was just there… dead…"

"And what about the Mason case?"

"Mason? I don't think there is a case by that name."

"Could you check?"

Goodman cringed a bit. "Sure, but… I really don't think so…

While he was looking, York took the folder and flipped through it. From the way the late Officer Bennett was laying, the placement of the shots… "She was fighting someone, Zach. And they fought back." He pulled out a cigarette and flipped through the photos one-handed. "But they weren't experienced, or maybe she was moving too much? Hard to tell…"

Goodman was staring at him. "Um, I checked. There's no Mason case."

"Harry Mason? Disappeared with his daughter? Before leaving, he told friends he was coming here."

"Maybe he never even made it?"

York shook his head, and went back to the file. "There's nothing in here about evidence found at the scene."

"Th- there wasn't any."

"No bullets in the body?"

"Oh those, well-"

"Well?"

"I- I think they'd be in evidence?"

"But there's no pictures of them."

"Um."

York sighed. He _would_ get the rookie. "Take me there."

By evening, York still hadn't figured out whether the police were completely clueless in all this, or knew more than they wanted to share. It could be both. The main thing he wanted to know now; was what Cybil had been doing in Silent Hill in the first place. She was from the next town over, not one of the locals. So what brought her here?

He'd need to ask her precinct, but that could wait until morning. The town had a couple of hotels, and the Bureau's dime could put York up for a few nights while he investigated. He thanked Officer Goodman for what little help he'd given, and headed outside.

"Um, Agent York?" York paused, and glanced back. Goodman was standing just outside the door, looking like he wanted to say something. "I…" He bit his lip. "I hope you have a good night."

"Thank you, Officer Goodman." A last question occurred to him, and York turned. "Officer, just… idle curiosity."

"Yes?"

"What's 'White Claudia?'"

Goodman gulped. "That's… a local problem, Agent. If it had to do with the Bennett case, it would have been mentioned."

"I see… Well, that's all then. Goodnight."

He could feel Goodman watching him as he walked away, but didn't look back until he got to his car. When he did, the young officer was gone.

"I don't like this place, Zach. There are a lot of questions to ask, before I can even get to the questions I _should_ be asking." He lit another cigarette, sitting in his car while he gathered his thoughts. "White Claudia… Like the Black Dahlia, eh Zach? 2006, Brian De Palma. But that was based on a real event, all the way back in 1947. I hope we don't run into anything quite that twisted here. Then again, white's our lucky color today."

He started the car, glancing at his map in the passenger seat. Norman's Motel was over near the amusement park, so it was convenient for his investigation. That, and the Bureau had gotten snippy over his choice in hotels lately. Better to play it safe for a few cases, and let them think he'd changed his ways.

He got his key, dropped off a few things, and went looking for a diner. One called "Jude's" was nearby, so he stopped in for a hamburger and coffee. Lackluster, the both of them. All his coffee said was he should dress warmly. The weather was supposed to get warmer, but York decided to lay out a long-sleeved shirt for the next day. Couldn't hurt.

As he got ready for bed, York went over what he'd learned.

"Little on Cybil Bennett, less on the Masons. It's like this town thinks nothing of murder and disappearance. Or maybe they have bigger problems…"

He covered his eyes with a hand. "Maybe _we_ have bigger problems. Well, whatever they are, they can wait until morning. Goodnight Zach."


	2. Chapter 2

2.

The morning was crisp, and York was glad he'd dressed properly. Coffee was the first priority, and though it wasn't great, the diner from the previous night was closest. The swirls of the coffee told him nothing useful, but he thought he saw a shape that looked a bit like a rabbit.

"Follow the white rabbit, eh Zach?" York chuckled. "That's a bit too cliché, don't you think?"

But as he was heading for the police station, a vague idea of shaking more information out of whoever was on duty, when he noticed a poster for the local amusement park. The one Officer Bennett had been killed in. The poster was stuck on a wall, faded and graffitied, but something about it caught York's eye. He pulled into a parking space a block up, and jogged back to have a look.

Nothing special. A skyline dominated by the roller coaster, children smiling and holding balloons, and… a man in a pink rabbit suit.

"What do you say, Zach? Feel like a trip to the amusement park?"

The park was closed, as was only natural, but York had federal jurisdiction. And a nine millimeter.

At least he closed the gate behind him.

Early in the day, a chill in the air, the deserted amusement park was more than a little spooky. York found a map and headed for the merry-go-round, the scene of the crime.

The photos of the crime scene hadn't been as thorough as he liked, but there was enough blood on the floor and painted horses that it had to be the place she'd died. The only strange part was the lack of other bullets or bullet holes. Officer Bennett had been found with gunpowder on her fingers, but no weapon. Along with the bullets in her body, she'd been gazed a few times, and had two fully pass through, but no other bullets were found.

Even if the killer had done a thorough job of cleaning up, why only take the bullets and not move the body? And why hadn't the bullets impacted anywhere nearby? The carousel was undamaged, except for the blood; no bullet holes, not even a scratch.

What York wanted to do now was examine the scene for himself. It had been a few weeks, but if the bullets had hit the pavement or a nearby building, there would still be evidence. York need to profile this, piece together what happened for himself.

The only damage remaining was some faded paint, from the bleach used to clean up. York stalked the area, searching for any signs of something… off. He found them, but they weren't what he expected.

More graffiti, on the back of a bench. The word "help." Odd, but might not be significant?

A piece of paper with a child's drawing, stuck beneath a trash can. Blobs of brown and red, with reaching arms.

A plastic water bottle with the label torn off, filled with an odd red liquid that smelled medicinal.

York straightened up and looked around him, taking in the quiet surroundings. Spooky before, even more so now, but there was nothing truly sinister. Just a closed park and discarded trash. He sighed, and lit up a cigarette.

"There are no coincidences, Zach." York shivered as a cold wind hit him, crisp and icy. "Odd weather too. I didn't think New England got cold so early."

A strange sound started behind him, from the carousel. A grinding, scraping sound, like old gears. York turned in time to see the horses begin to bob, slowly, the music barely recognizable slowed down to a crawl.

"Hello?" York called. "Is someone there?"

He couldn't see an employee at the control panel, but someone must have started the thing.

"FBI!" York shouted. "Come out where I can see you."

Still no one, no sound but the gradual speeding up of the merry-go-round music. York dropped his cigarette and pulled out his gun as he walked toward the contraption.

"A trap, Zach?" He shivered again, a cold drop hitting the back of his neck. If someone was there, they couldn't have gone far. York walked around the carousel, the horses bobbing past him. He could smell snow in the air.

The scraping sound began again, but this time it wasn't coming from the carousel. Someone, dressed in blue, moving toward him. York was squinting before he realized there was a fog rolling down over the park, obscuring his view.

"I'm an FBI agent," York said. "I'm investigating this crime scene."

The person kept walking toward him, a metallic scrape accompanying the movement. "Are you an employee? Maybe you can show me around?"

The figure hiccupped, and York thought he saw smoke, or maybe it was cold enough to see breath.

An echo of the scrape made York turn his head, and get a faceful of smoke. He coughed helplessly, trying to wave away the cloud, the smell of rust and tobacco clogging his nostrils.

Hands fastened around York's neck, the smoke and the stench getting stronger. Breathing wasn't an option, but York's gun was still in hand. He jammed the muzzle into the torso of the one choking him and fired until he ran out of bullets. The hands did nothing but tighten their grip.

Just before he passed out, York thought he saw a hollow-cheeked face and milky white eyes, staring at him.

Sound filtered in, followed by thought, and the usual coughing fit York had upon awaking. It wasn't worse than normal this time, and for a moment York thought the smoke and choking had been a dream; until he opened his eyes to see an unfamiliar room.

Out the windows, he could still see fog and snow falling gently, but no strange men. York stood up and stretched.

"I think we've fallen down the rabbit hole, Zach."

His gun was missing, and so were his smokes, but cell phone and lighter were still in place. He tried the phone, and wasn't particularly surprised when every call failed.

Looking around, the room seemed to be someone's office. York had been sleeping on a little couch, matched to the chairs in front of the desk. The chair behind it was much nicer, black leather, fully adjustable. York couldn't help wondering who worked here, and how they could afford something like that. Behind the desk was a painting of a lake at sunset, the light turning the water yellow and orange, like it was on fire.

With the fog, York couldn't see what was outside, but a bit of searching found some kind of vitamin drink in the desk, and a broken radio. He took the drink, but left the radio behind. No need to be carrying around useless electronics.

A bottom drawer proved more interesting; a nine millimeter Ladysmith tucked under some files. He'd been attacked once already, and he could always return the gun later, so York tucked it into his holster.

"Whatever's going on, Zach, it must have something to do with what happened to Officer Bennett." He pushed open the door, finding an empty hallway, barely lit. "I guess we'll just have to keep on our toes."


End file.
